


The Way We Were (We'll Rewrite Every Line)

by Detochkina



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Banter, Camaraderie, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Longing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Plot, Romance, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:43:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina
Summary: Merlin has a secret. Arthur finds out. Both are pants at dealing with the aftermath. Yet, they try. There are a lot of feelings. (And yes, of course they succeed at the end.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aelys_Althea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, dear Aelys_Althea! I loved all your prompts, but one spoke to me very loudly, and although I didn’t manage the prompt to your exact specifications, I tried my best to do it justice and also apply as many of your likes as I could! Please accept this gift with my sincere hope that you find it to your liking. Please enjoy! 
> 
> My heartfelt thanks to my betas and besties M and C. I don’t know what I’d do without you! 
> 
> Huge kudos to the Mods for being amazing. 
> 
> Characters are not mine. No copyright infringement intended. So forth. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

 &&&&&

Merlin crouches in front of the fireplace, iron poker in his outstretched hand, and freezes, transfixed. Smiling, Arthur watches the light dance on his boyfriend’s daydreaming face for an eternity, the curve of his back under his shirt a beautiful line, until he knows that if Merlin stays like this any longer, he might lose feeling in his legs.

“Earth to Merlin,” he calls softly from his armchair but startles Merlin anyway, who drops the poker with a jerk and falls flat on his arse.

Elaborate curses fill the room. Merlin throws a book at a laughing Arthur, and of course misses.

Arthur doesn’t want to offend Merlin, but his boyfriend trying to roll back on his knees and failing is just too funny. And endearing. “Why do you even try?”

Leaving his armchair, he helps Merlin up.

“Try what?” Merlin grumbles. Stumbling, he reaches for the poker again.

Arthur beats him, snatching it first. Chuckling, he nudges Merlin towards the couch. “Go sit, you great Klutz McKlutzerson.”

Merlin glares at Arthur, who starts poking the log to break it up. “I was just about to do that.” Arthur snorts, doubling his efforts. With a petulant huff, Merlin takes Arthur’s armchair instead and wiggles into a more comfortable position. “Thanks to your extra-cushy arse, it’s still warm here.”

“Oi,” Arthur protests, pointing the poker at Merlin. “Just this morning, you called my arse glorious and the world’s most valuable asset.”

Merlin grabs a throw blanket off the armrest. “That was in the throes of passion and in my most vulnerable state. Doesn’t count.” He yawns.

“Does too,” Arthur argues. “You love my arse.”

“So?” Merlin pulls his legs up and burrows deeper into the cushions, covering himself.

“So.” Arthur places the poker back onto the rack and turns. “Merlin, don’t get too comfortable. If you fall asleep, I’m not carrying you to bed. You’re way too heavy.”

“ _You’re_ too heavy,” Merlin objects sleepily, his eyes already closed.

“I’m not fat!” Arthur nudges Merlin’s toe.

Merlin opens one eye, and it’s surprisingly clear. “I’m not clumsy.”

Arthur huffs and pulls the blanket off Merlin’s lap. “Come on. You’ll wake up with a crick in your neck and will pin it on me again.” He offers his hand to Merlin. “Please.”

Merlin sighs and follows Arthur to the bedroom.

 

&&&&&

 It took Merlin nearly two years before he finally caved in and moved in with Arthur. It’s only been a few months, and they’re still figuring things out as a couple living together, but they’ve already established a certain routine around each other, and Arthur must admit it’s not going too badly.

They're in bed, having gone through their nighttime ritual of washing and changing. Merlin’s the little spoon, Arthur’s heavy arm a possessive weight over him. Arthur’s drifting off and twitching, falling into slumber fast. The last of the fire crackles can occasionally be heard from the living room, and Merlin’s whisper breaks the peaceful silence blanketing them. “I don’t like it when you call me a klutz, Arthur.” It's followed by a quiet sigh.

Arthur doesn’t answer, already deep asleep.

 

&&&&&

It just so happens over time that Arthur is the one who does the cleaning and the dishes in their household. He’d do all the laundry as well, but Merlin draws the line there, insisting on doing his own washing himself.

Arthur argues that buying new outfits every other month is not a sensible alternative. Of course, Merlin claims that it’s all dirty lies, no pun intended -- he isn’t _that_ bad -- and yes, Arthur might be exaggerating a little, but it’s better than admitting that he’s a bit obsessive about having their home tidy and keeping every shelf in the flat sorted. Not because he loves cleaning that much, but because it’s _theirs_ , and his way of showing Merlin that he cares. This is how he knows best to compensate for the nights and weekends when he’s buried with work and is not there to spend time with his boyfriend and best friend.

Merlin, on his third year of teaching at a Secondary school, has a more flexible schedule than Arthur. This is how they actually met: as a favour to his sister Morgana, who was sick with the flu, Arthur was dropping off his nephew Mordred at school when Merlin had literally rammed into him in a hallway, spilling an entire cup of coffee all over them both. Upon Arthur’s indignant snap “You clumsy idiot!”, Merlin fired back, snarking if the posh prat “was blind as a bat”. That didn’t stop Merlin from apologetically trying to blot the coffee spots off Arthur’s shirt. Arthur’s demands that the “bumbling oaf” _get his hands off him_ somehow turned into asking the bloke out for more coffee. To this day, Arthur can’t explain what possessed him -- or be more thankful that he asked.

“Merlin!” Arthur yells from the kitchen. “I’m about to toss the load in. I suggest you throw your dirty socks into the basket if you don’t want to walk around in crusty ones for the next two weeks!”

“Do you hear me?” he asks again when Merlin doesn’t answer.

Merlin pads into the kitchen, yawning, and Arthur takes his boyfriend in. Merlin, in a singlet and baggy joggers, is gloriously disheveled and loose-limbed, a healthy blush pinking his shoulders and chest. He’s tall, but not too imposing, and there’s a certain air about him that puts the room at ease. Arthur smiles at him with affection.

Merlin massages and flexes his arm with a quiet groan and a slight grimace. Arthur loves Merlin’s arms -- lean and well-defined, they’re strong enough to sometimes surprise Arthur with a grip that can leave marks. Arthur likes it rough, and by now Merlin’s figured it out, seeing how Arthur’s walking around with fingerprint bruises on his hips right now. There’s also a delicious-feeling ache of a bite on Arthur’s left arsecheek. He flushes a little at the memory of where Merlin had his mouth just a little over an hour ago and wishes they could spend all day in bed.   

“Are you going to the office?” Merlin asks, his voice scratchy. He picks up his flannel shirt from the chair where he forgot it the previous night and ties it around his waist. Barefoot, bare-chested, his look is casual and, God help Arthur -- distractedly sexy. 

Arthur clears his throat and busies himself with placing the last washed plate on the dish rack, then pulling the towel off the stove handle to dry his hands, maybe a bit more thoroughly than necessary. He finally raises his eyes to meet Merlin’s. “It’s Saturday,” he says, shrugging. “Of course I’m going to the office. I won’t be longer than past four,” he adds quickly.

“Right.” Merlin waves and walks out of the kitchen.

“Merlin, laundry!” Arthur yells, as if it’s the most important part of this conversation.

“Just leave it,” Merlin replies from the depth of the flat. “I’ll do mine later.”

Arthur frowns. “Merlin!” he calls again.

Merlin comes back. “Yes?”

Arthur looks at him expectantly. Merlin huffs, hiding a smile. He walks up to Arthur and, hooking his fingers in the belt loops of Arthur’s trousers, tugs him in and pecks him on the cheek. Before Merlin can pull away, Arthur wraps his arms around him. He kisses Merlin’s freckled shoulder. Presses his nose into Merlin’s neck in search of warmth and reassuring familiarity, and he isn’t disappointed.

He murmurs, “I love you,” into the spot where the early stubble meets the softness of Merlin’s skin. He kisses him there.

Merlin shivers.

“I love you, too,” he answers quietly, leaning into Arthur, and Arthur’s chest feels very tight, like it always does when he knows he’s disappointing Merlin and has nothing else to offer but these three words. He hopes it’s enough.   

“I’ll be home soon,” Arthur vows.

Merlin sighs, stepping out of embrace.

“You sure about laundry?” Arthur asks, checking the clock on the stove.

“I’m sure. I’ll see you tonight, Arthur.”

Although the flat isn’t that big, it feels like forever before Merlin’s footsteps fade away. He didn’t even ask Merlin about his plans for today and resolves to text him, and be home early, as he promised. No later than four o’clock.

Deep down, he knows he’ll most likely break the promise like he’s done many times before, but Merlin has always been understanding, and to be fair, Arthur’s nothing but very supportive of everything Merlin does, too.

He tries not to think much of it when he texts Merlin that evening to let him know he’ll be late and Merlin doesn’t reply. And he’s too exhausted after the long day in the office to notice that Merlin has actually done the laundry -- or tease him mercilessly about that.

 

&&&&&

 The next month goes by in a blur of work travel, meetings, and several all-nighters at the office to close another deal. Of course, Arthur knows this is not ideal for a committed relationship, and if he has any hopes for a work-life balance, he has to try harder. But at the end of each day, it’s the “harder” part that he has zero energy for. His patience and temper take a considerable hit, too. One late evening, when he can’t locate a particularly important file on his laptop and has an epic meltdown in the office of his assistant Gwen, she tells him that this is it, he’s going home and is not coming back the next day. To any objections, she threatens to lock him out of the building.

“I own the building,” Arthur objects feebly, sniffling. 

“And I know every code to it and the head of HR owes me a few favours,” Gwen says, locking Arthur’s laptop in her desk drawer, paying no heed to Arthur’s weak protests. “I’m calling you a cab. Don’t you dare show your face here before Monday, or I swear, Arthur, I’ll quit.”

That sobers Arthur up.

In the flat, it's quiet. Merlin’s on the couch reading a book. One look at Arthur shuffling his feet and he puts his book aside, sighing. He follows Arthur to the bedroom, where he wordlessly helps him undress and to bed.

“Don’t go.” Arthur catches Merlin’s hand while he's turning off the lamp. He presses a kiss to Merlin’s wrist, enormously thankful that Merlin exists and that he’s here, with him. He falls asleep with Merlin’s fingers in his hair, slow, gentle circles against his scalp.

Arthur wakes up to the sound of something crashing. Groggy, mouth parched, he’s squinting at the sun shining through the half-opened curtains, and it takes him a moment to adjust to the surroundings and remember where he is. He sees Merlin sprawled on the floor beside their bed, hissing and rubbing his foot. There’s a tray flipped over next to him, milky tea seeping into the rug and the toast lying nearby, buttered side down, of course.

“Did you hit your toe again, Merlin?” Arthur croaks, sitting up. His entire body feels like it’s made of rubber, no strength in his limbs. He groans. “What time is it?”

“I tripped over your bloody loafers.” Merlin glares at him. “It’s past two in the afternoon. You slept for fourteen hours straight.”

Arthur shrugs, not surprised. He wouldn’t mind sleeping some more; give it a go for at least a month or through the entire winter if he could, and secretly wishes it were possible.

He stretches with a loud yawn. “Good thing I’m awake now. It seems I can’t leave you to your devices for too long. You’re bound to hurt yourself. Or break something.” He looks pointedly at the shattered saucer on the floor.

“I’m perfectly fine, thanks so much for asking,” Merlin snaps, pushing himself off the floor.

Arthur rolls his eyes and pats the spot next to him on the bed. “Just come here. Must you always be this clum--”

“Can you not?” Merlin interrupts sharply. “I want you to stop calling me that.” When Arthur sighs and tries to leave the bed, he stops him. “You’re barefoot. Let me clean this up first.”

Arthur stays in and watches Merlin clean. He’s quick and efficient about it, so he’s learned a trick or two since he and Arthur met. Merlin’s hair is ruffled and there’s at least a three-day stubble shadowing his cheeks. Another day and it’ll turn from bristly into a soft fuzz, and although Arthur prefers Merlin clean-shaven, today he thinks Merlin is particularly handsome -- never mind the beard and the pout, and the deliberate stomping around. How can someone not find him attractive, with his long legs, lean, sculpted frame, and washboard abs, which are the surprising part, considering that Merlin eats like a horse and lies about at every opportunity. He’s incredibly fit for the lazy oaf he is.

“I miss you,” Arthur blurts out before he can catch himself. 

Merlin stops what he’s doing and looks at Arthur, his eyebrows raised.

“Leave it,” Arthur murmurs. “Please come.” He shifts to give Merlin space in bed to lie down.

Merlin studies Arthur from under his dark fringe, and Arthur waits for him to cool down and concede, because he always does and Arthur loves it about him -- that Merlin can never hold grudges for more than ten minutes.

Merlin finally sighs and yields, and joins Arthur in bed. Lying stiffly on his back, he stares at the ceiling. His dejected expression hooks at something in Arthur’s chest sharply.

He turns to face Merlin, propping himself up on one elbow. “I’m sorry,” he says and brushes Merlin’s hair away from his eyes. When Merlin doesn’t move away, he leans in to kiss him. A small soft kiss to the bridge of his nose, to the corner of his mouth, his chin. 

“Ack,” Merlin says, grimacing, already losing some of his moroseness. “Stop. Your breath stinks.”

Arthur chuckles. “You’re the one who didn’t let me leave the bed.”

“I regret that suggestion dearly,” Merlin says covering his nose with his arm with exaggerated disgust. “Get your arse up. Go have a wash.”

Laughing, his mood already marginally improved, Arthur rolls off the bed. On the way to the bathroom, he turns to look at Merlin. “I’m sorry you hurt your toe.”

“You should be,” Merlin grumbles. “I was bringing you sustenance. Was going to serve you in bed.”

“Gwen told me not to show my face until Monday,” Arthur announces.

“Oh.” Merlin frowns. “All right.”

Arthur’s smile falters. “I thought you’d be more happy.”

“I am.” Merlin says. “I--” His eyes dart away. “I had plans this afternoon.”

Arthur shifts from foot to foot. “What kind of plans?” He can’t blame Merlin for not being able to count on Arthur to be reliably at home on weekends, but it hurts a little that Merlin clearly still has interests that don’t involve Arthur, even now that they live together. It's a ridiculous thought, of course. Merlin’s not a housewife.

“Plans,” Merlin says vaguely, and Arthur likes that even less. But then Merlin thinks for a moment and smiles. “I’ll cancel.” His smile is so genuine, Arthur can’t worry about what it was Merlin wanted to do without him anymore.

“Dinner and a movie, then?” Arthur asks. “Or…” He wiggles his brows. “ _Shower_ first?”

Laughing, Merlin jumps out of the bed to chase after Arthur to the loo.

They don’t remember to finish the cleanup or have any food until almost dawn.

 

&&&&&

 Somewhat encouraged by the success of the previous weekend, Arthur vows to himself to have a repeat performance the following week. He even allows Gwen to take three days off, Friday including.

By Saturday afternoon, that proves to be a big bloody mistake, but this time, true to his word, Arthur calls Merlin to apologise when he needs to cancel their evening plans. While Merlin does sound somewhat annoyed, he doesn’t seem overly surprised or upset by the news.

“I see,” he says simply. “Should I expect you at home tonight?” Like it’s no big deal for his boyfriend to not show up the entire night at all.

Arthur mumbles something conciliatory, his words sounding empty even to his own ears, and that sucks big donkey balls.

“No worries,” Merlin says amiably. “I understand. I have things to do anyway.”

“No, no,” Arthur rushes out. “Merlin, I’ll be home in a few hours. I didn’t finish dishes this morning, remember? And haven’t done any laundry.” Like this is the biggest reason for Arthur to be home on time. There’s hardly any routine left to their lives nowadays.

Merlin’s laugh is dry. “Laundry. Right. Well, I wouldn’t worry. At least about mine. I’ll see you when you’re home, Arthur. Please don’t forget to eat.”

Nothing seems to go right after Arthur hangs up the phone. He makes mistake after mistake, none of the formulas working as they should, none of the numbers matching in previously working projections. With Gwen out, there’s no one to proofread his emails or bring him his favourite cuppa when he feels like he wants to explode. He tries to work on the budget for the next quarter, but finds that the part normally exported for him by Gwen from another system is missing and that halts any further progress on the spreadsheet. He calls it quits at eight o’clock. Leaving the office, he just now realises that he’s the only person left in the entire building. Him and the guard. What is his life?

He dials Merlin from the cab to tell him he’s coming home. Merlin doesn’t pick up, so he leaves a message. Merlin doesn’t call him back.

There’s no answer when Arthur calls Merlin’s name while taking his shoes off in the foyer. The entire flat is dark and quiet, like there’s no one home. The clock on Arthur’s phone shows quarter of nine -- a little too early for Merlin be asleep. It takes Arthur a full minute and a search through every room of the flat to confirm that Merlin’s indeed not at home.

Arthur leaves Merlin another message and receives a text from him a few minutes later, letting him know he’ll be home soon. No explanation. Just a: _-I’ll be home soon. -M_

At least he’s alive and hasn’t left him yet, Arthur jokes to himself darkly.

Still in his office attire, he loosens his tie, pours himself three fingers of whiskey and takes his favourite spot in the armchair, facing the front door.

He wakes up to Merlin murmuring for him to, “Shake a leg,” and “Up and at ’em, Arthur,” and finally, “Let’s have you, lazy daisy. Move your glorious arse.” They both crack up at that.

Arthur half laughs, half snorts as Merlin pulls him to his wobbly feet. He’s dizzy from the sudden movement.

“Are you drunk?” Merlin asks, sniffing the air.

“Just tired,” Arthur slurs, and it’s true.

In the bedroom, Arthur lets Merlin undress him. Face to face, they don’t meet each other’s eyes.

“Should I worry about where you’ve been this evening?” Arthur finally asks, now noticing a bit of a flush high on Merlin’s cheeks and Merlin’s slightly trembling fingers as he starts unbuttoning his own shirt.

Merlin stops what he’s doing and looks at Arthur. “Should I worry where _you’_ ve been?” he asks, harsh notes in his voice.

Arthur winces. “Merlin…”

Merlin shakes his head. He pulls his shirt off his shoulders, staying in just an undershirt, which is dark with sweat. He must have ran all the way home from somewhere, Arthur realises, his heart sinking. He doesn’t want to ask for details.

“At some point you’ll need to learn how to be fair to me and to yourself, Arthur. I hope it’s soon,” Merlin says. 

Arthur frowns. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

Merlin studies his face, looking for something, and huffs. “Go to bed. You said you were tired.”

Arthur hesitates, swallows. “And you?”

“More than you can imagine.”

There’s a small smile tugging at the corner of Merlin’s mouth, not directed at Arthur, and that makes Arthur’s heart sink deeper.

While brushing his teeth, Arthur thinks that with all their usual arguments, this was barely one, yet it somehow feels worse.

 

&&&&&

 As much as Arthur appreciates Merlin’s consideration, there's not a lot of laundry to go through when it’s just for himself. There’s a sort of meditative nature to the repetitive motion of folding and putting away clean-smelling, still-warm clothes, that he likes. Merlin’s side of the closet is nothing but piles of clothes on the shelves, colours mixed with whites and blacks -- something Arthur never allows on his side.

“Useless,” he sighs with a shake of his head. “Ever the helpless git.”

Merlin doesn’t hear him, busy playing XBox, which gives Arthur the opportunity and the pleasure to do the right thing here. Merlin can thank him later, and Arthur already has an idea or two as to how.

Smiling to himself, he goes to work.

Almost an hour later, Arthur admires the fruits of his labour, thoroughly satisfied. Everything’s in order: tees are separated from flannels, cargos are next to jeans, and work chinos are on hangers, socks are neatly rolled up and stored in the bottom drawer. Arthur has his own system for colour coordination, and it’s a work of art. Among Merlin’s outfits, he finds a few items he hasn’t seen Merlin wear before -- mostly of a cargo and check-flannel shirt variety -- and one particular article of clothing he believes is an especially peculiar style. Arthur notes to buy Merlin a thicker, longer scarf to replace the one he finds tucked in the pocket of one pair of Merlin’s new trousers. This ridiculous little square looks more like something to rob a bank in and can hardly protect Merlin’s delicate throat through London’s harsh winter. Merlin already seems to have been more under the weather this season than he’s been in the entire two years Arthur’s known him.

This gives Arthur an idea, which he resolves to look into the minute he has free time tonight. He can’t stop grinning while dressing for work and kissing Merlin on his way out. Merlin lets him, not taking his eyes off the screen, still blowing up zombies. Something goes up in smoke and he swears.

Arthur offers his usual, “I won’t be long.”

Merlin nods, like he always does, thumb frantically pressing a button, his body tilting as his character tilts on the screen. He adds, “I’ll be out for a while, too. Text me what you want to do tonight.” He glances at Arthur. “If…”

“I’ll be home for dinner,” Arthur insists and presses his lips together so he doesn’t start prying about Merlin’s Saturday, knowing already that any questions, no matter how benign, will be met with either silence or answers so vague, Arthur’d rather let it be. Merlin has the right to have some parts of his life be strictly his own; after all, Arthur has his.

He feels a bit lighter when Merlin pauses the game and, stepping into Arthur’s space, murmurs with a coy smile, “Be back by seven, and I promise you the best dessert of your life.” The kiss that follows leaves Arthur breathless and achingly hard.

“You better make good on that promise,” Arthur says hoarsely.

Merlin flashes him a filthy grin. “Then be home on time.”

Oh, Arthur will. He so will.

 

&&&&&

Personally, Arthur hates surprises, and doesn’t get the point of them. Doesn’t everyone want everything planned in advance to their liking, so the time and the money is well-spent? Merlin, on the other hand, is a sucker for things unexpected and wondrous. He gets this wide-eyed, otherworldly look on his face Arthur calls “dopey” but secretly loves, and this is what Arthur hopes for when he decides to browse for their vacation getaway. It’s been a while since they’ve gone anywhere together, even for a weekend. It seems whenever Arthur can take time off, Merlin is busy with something or other, but the winter holidays at Merlin’s school are soon, and they both could use a break.

Clicking around a vacation trip site on their home laptop, Arthur’s researching destinations, trying to decide whether Merlin would rather like the hot sand of Maldives’ beaches or some hiking activities and sightseeing in Spain. Nothing too expensive, knowing Merlin’s stubborn insistence on paying his half for everything, even though he can hardly afford it on his teacher salary. Merlin is broke quite often and Arthur’s learned to pretend that he likes teas and biscuits from Tesco rather than shopping at Waitrose.

A window comes up, congratulating Arthur on being a winner of some special package he has no interest in, but no matter how many times he clicks to close it, the window persistently keeps popping up. Everything stops working after that, the screen frozen.

“Bollocks,” Arthur mutters. If it’s a virus, Merlin will kill him. He would ask Merlin for help, but then his cover will be blown if Merlin sees what Arthur’s been researching.

So Arthur does what a billion other people do in this situation: he smacks the side of the laptop in frustration and reboots it. All programs that were open before, including the browser, load again and seem to work. Arthur lets out a sigh of relief. Because he didn’t bookmark anything, he chooses to open all recently closed tabs from the browser’s history. He’s smart like that.

About ten tabs open, and several songs start playing loudly, overlapping.

“Whoa, whoa,” Arthur says, clicking through the tabs to find the source. All of the songs are actually YouTube videos of people dancing at various venues.

One video of a bloke performing on a street corner catches his attention. The music is poppy and the guy’s moves… There’s something about him that has Arthur pause to watch his performance. A shot pans in and out, showing a small crowd round the bloke, a Boots down the street, moving cars on a busy road, so Arthur can tell it’s filmed in the UK. The dancer is in cargo bottoms, a plaid shirt loose on his shoulders, and a plain white tee. A scarf over the lower part of his face, sunglasses, and a snapback cap hide his identity completely, but it doesn’t matter; Arthur knows so little about dancing in general, he can’t even tell in what kind of a style the bloke is performing, let alone care if it’s someone famous.

At first, Arthur thinks it’s some kind of twerking, but the description says “Dragon X / Animation and Popping”, which isn’t much, except for the fact that he hears Merlin occasionally arguing with the computer while watching his favourite American programme, _So You Think You Can Dance_. Merlin adores that show and watches it on repeat, his shoulders and legs twitching involuntarily while his eyes are glued to the screen. It's funny. Arthur could never understand Merlin’s obsession, but he has to admit, this guy on the screen sure can move -- in the unrefined, unsophisticated way of a street dancer. Still, he’s kind of mesmerising, if Arthur were honest, with his long, animated limbs and sharp, snappy moves -- and pouring his heart into it.

The loudly cheering crowd around him is clearly in love with it. A couple of guys join him from the crowd and it’s a competition, in which Arthur isn’t sure who’s winning, but the performance is worth it.

Arthur watches it until the end and is about to close the tab when something snags his eye: the certain few details of the dancer’s attire. Those cargos, the check-flannel shirt, the blue scarf. He’s seen it somewhere already. Leaning forward, he studies the bloke’s outfit a bit longer and laughs.

He doesn’t notice Merlin in the room until Merlin’s face appears looming over the laptop. Merlin’s scowling at him.

“Merlin!” Arthur jumps up, snapping the laptop’s screen shut. “You’re home!” 

“What were you doing?” Merlin asks, his hand in a fist over the laptop.

“I was watching YouTube videos,” Arthur answers honestly.

“What videos?” Merlin asks, his voice raising a bit.

Merlin’s nervousness is amusing. Arthur smiles and shrugs. “Of some bloke. A street dancer. I don’t know him.” He taps on the laptop with a chuckle. “But you probably do, seeing you had loads of his clips watched. Must have a crush on him or something,” Arthur teases.

Merlin pales. “What?”

Arthur laughs. “It’s all right, Merlin. I’m not mad. Having crushes is healthy. Some people collect Superman capes and lightsabers, you buy shirts and scarves to be like your hero. I think it’s charming.”

“You think it’s charming,” Merlin repeats slowly. “Did you go through my things?” His eyes narrow at Arthur. “You did, didn't you? _Arsehole_.” He turns abruptly to leave.

“What?” Arthur grabs Merlin’s arm. “Merlin, hey.”

Merlin jerks his arm away. “I can’t believe you.”

“You make it sound so terrible,” Arthur protests. “I wasn’t doing anything bad.”

“You weren’t doing anything bad?” Merlin gets in Arthur’s face, his eyes bright with fury. “You didn’t go through my browsing history? Didn’t dig through my clothes?”

“No. I--” Arthur chokes on the answer. “It was-- It was an accident. The videos. And the clothes… I was just trying to help with sorting your things in the closet. It was a bloody mess there.” He doesn’t mean it to sound accusatory, but it still somehow does. He wishes he could rewind time and say none of those things. He wishes he didn’t watch those damn videos, or touch Merlin’s stuff, seeing how upset all this makes his boyfriend.

“How many times should I tell you I can take care of myself?” Merlin doesn’t raise his voice, but the deep disappointment behind it slices Arthur. “I’m not a child or incompetent. And I’m not the clumsy idiot you keep trying to convince everyone I am…” He pauses, a bitter smile appearing on his face. “You don’t think much of me, do you?”

Arthur halts. “Merlin, I’ve never--”

“Yes you have. All the time,” Merlin interrupts him. “You don’t even notice it anymore. And please tell me, if I once, ever, went through your personal stuff -- files, papers, anything -- how would you feel?”

Arthur opens his mouth, then shuts it. He frowns, thinking, and finally says, “This is our shared space, Merlin. This is not the same.”

“Yes, it is,” Merlin answers firmly. “When I specifically ask you not to touch my things, it is.”

“Does it mean you have something to hide?” Arthur asks, hating the suggestion, but what else must he think?

Merlin falters. “No. I-- No. It’s the matter of respect,” he insists, looking away.

The thought that comes next to Arthur is so crushing, he can’t breathe for a moment, but he still feels he must ask. “You really are into that guy, are you? Is this what it's all about? And the scarf I found is his, is it not?”

Merlin snaps his gaze back on Arthur, blazingly hot. He breathes harshly through the nose a few times before speaking. “You’re an idiot, Pendragon. A dense... blind...” He gasps for breath again. “...complete wanker.”

“Merlin!” Arthur’s affronted.

“No.” Merlin flies him two fingers. “Don’t talk to me.”

He goes to the bedroom, rummaging there for a bit, and storms past Arthur. Arthur flinches when the front door slams shut.

 

&&&&&  

 Merlin doesn’t come back that night, doesn’t answer Arthur’s calls the next day, or the next. On Monday morning, Gwen hugs Arthur, who’s barely slept and probably looks like hell.

“He’s okay, Arthur,” she murmurs. “Staying at Lance’s for a bit. He wanted you to know that.”

Lancelot is Gwen’s fiance, whom she met through Merlin. He and Lance are colleagues at the same school.

“Well, how very generous of him,” Arthur mutters, although it’s a huge weight off his heart to know Merlin’s safe and doesn’t want Arthur to worry.

Arthur still does. He’s sick with guilt and worry.

Gwen reads something on his face. “No, Arthur, you can’t go see him today. Give him space.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Arthur snaps. “I’ve been giving him nothing but space, and I have no idea if that’s what he really wants.”

“I think you should call him first,” Gwen suggests gently.

“I’ve been calling!” Arthur rubs his face. “He isn’t answering.”

“Well then, maybe you should wait until he does.”

Arthur stares into nothing for a while, then nods.

 

&&&&&

The waiting in limbo is unbearable. All the unspoken and unexplained tension between him and Merlin, with no way of release, is killing him. What devastates Arthur the most is the thought that he might never have another chance to learn all of Merlin’s intricacies, all the small parts and big parts of him still undiscovered and enticing. Now the opportunity may be completely out of his reach. He might never be able to fathom out why Merlin is really so mad at him -- and he wants to. Would do anything to.

Sleep eludes Arthur. Awful, clawing thoughts and a heartache stay.

Arthur walks around the flat until he’s dizzy, sits down in front of the laptop. He fires up the browser and goes straight to YouTube. It’s a shameful thing, but now that Merlin knows Arthur’s done it before, Arthur tries to justify his actions by telling himself he just needs to understand. He wants to know. He’s still logged in to Merlin’s account, so, he goes to “History” and begins to watch everything that Merlin has watched before.

Merlin’s playlists are extensive and diverse offering no rhyme or reason to it, just like Merlin himself. His taste in music is atrocious, which Arthur already knows, and it only makes him cringe and smile. But some of the choices make sense when he starts watching the dancing bits. Different people, different styles, crews and solos. Street battles, step-by-step tutorials, big venue competitions around the world. By reading the descriptions, Arthur learns about hip-hop, electronic dance music, dubstep, rave. Merlin’s library is vast, and Arthur’s got nothing but time. He’s nothing if not persistent, watching, studying, clicking the next video, then next, then next.

He’s glued to the screen instantly and probably stops breathing once he hits the video of that Dragon X bloke dancing again. It’s a different street, unmistakably London, his face still hidden behind the glasses and a scarf as he glides on air, pops his hips and shoulders to the beat, drops to the ground in a split, only to pull himself up effortlessly by the invisible strings. It’s like magic, and Arthur can’t look away. He thinks he understands Merlin’s infatuation, the emotional attachment Merlin must feel to this undeniably talented bloke with his incredible sense of rhythm, his simple yet sexy outfits, his unbridled love of dancing shining through his every move.

It all makes sense to Arthur now.

He recalls Merlin, bright with enthusiasm, talking plans of opening a performing arts studio at his school and his struggles to get it funded, because the school’s headmaster was an unmitigated arse -- and Merlin’s rampant joy when he prevailed. Arthur remembers the flyers all over Merlin’s flat last summer for the kids’ performance he organised. He invited Arthur. Arthur can’t recall the reason he missed it -- a completely valid, work-related reason, of course. But he can recall Merlin’s crestfallen expression while he was explaining to him patiently how important Arthur's job was -- and what a huge responsibility.

He regrets it all now. It was Arthur who acted like a total, unmitigated arse.

Arthur doesn’t get up for hours, watching video after video from Merlin’s playlist, obsessing and despairing, and almost misses one particular shot -- an obvious editing mistake in one of the clips. It’s shot in a dance studio that’s more like a school gym. Dragon X has just finished a dancing routine he had practised and practised until it worked, which solicits cheering from a group of dancers like him seated near him. The shot is jerky, probably on a mobile, and Dragon X probably has no idea he’s being filmed, because he whoops, pumping his fist in the air, and pulls the scarf off his face. He’s sweaty and grinning. The mobile jerks away immediately. 

Arthur gasps.

  

&&&&&

It’s been over a week, and Arthur’s lost.

He is delirious from insomnia and misery, crushing his soul. He misses Merlin to the marrow of his bones.

He misses his morning face, creased from the pillow, his silly hair, and his groggy smile. Their touching and kissing that often grew into something more, bright, urgent, and achingly reverent. He misses Merlin’s hot mouth, the filthy promises that Merlin always made good on. Their showers together. Merlin’s taste mixed with soap. He misses returning to the flat in the evening to Merlin’s messy clothes on the floor, burnt dinner, and Merlin on the couch, nose deep in the book.

Merlin’s boots are at the front door and the first thing Arthur sees whenever he walks into the flat. Dirty laces, scuffed, arched toes, soles worn out in strange spots (“They are not beat up, Arthur. They’re well-loved.”), the boots are a mocking presence next to Arthur’s impeccable, boring oxfords. They used to be Merlin’s favourite pair, now dumped. 

Arthur’s withering.

He’s desperate to hear Merlin’s voice. For Merlin to come back home to him or at least call him. Arthur’s left him a dozen messages, but it remains quiet -- so bloody quiet -- in his flat and his voicemail box.

When the doorbell finally rings, Arthur isn’t sure he isn’t hearing things. He’s breathless with hope when he flings the door open, his smile sliding right off as soon as he sees who’s actually come for a visit.

“Morgana,” he says in a toneless voice and shuffles back to his armchair to resume staring at the falling snow through parted curtains.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Morgana greets him, following him into the room. She observes multiple empty cups stacked on the coffee table and tsks. “At least you’re not pissing yourself drunk.”

Arthur sighs. “Why are you here? Is Mordred okay?”

“How nice of you to care on occasion,” Morgana snipes. “Mordred is a pubescent teenager; of course he’s not okay. His birthday is next weekend, in case you forgot. For references, he’s currently into Pokemon.”

“Yes,” Arthur answers listlessly. “I’ll be there. With the right present, of course.”

“You. What about Merlin?” Morgana says, looking around. “Where’s he?”

Arthur pretends the question doesn’t stab him right in the heart. He purses his lips. “Indisposed. Momentarily.”

“Right,” Morgana says. “So it happened. You finally cocked it up.”

“Morgana, please leave,” Arthur says, too tired for any of his sister’s shite.

“No chance, dear brother. Look at me,” she demands. “It’s pathetic how lovesick and useless you appear.”

Arthur huffs feebly. “Ha. How entertaining for you.”

“Stop it, Arthur. Just stop it.” She shakes his shoulder. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

Arthur looks up at her face but doesn’t really see her, having no desire to waste energy on focusing his eyes.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Morgana demands. “Why did Merlin leave?”

Knowing his sister and her persistent ways, Arthur figures he better show her and get it over with.

He fires up the laptop, opens YouTube, types “Dragon X” in Search and clicks the first video that comes up in the suggested list. “I found this.”

Morgana watches the entire video without commenting, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She quirks a brow at Arthur when it’s over. “He’s really good, isn’t he?”

Arthur flops back in his chair, crossing his arms. “So you knew?”

Morgana shrugs.

“How long?”

“A while. I had to find out more about the bloke my brother was so smitten with, back when you first started talks about moving in together. Imagine my surprise when I learned your Merlin Emrys is a well-known street dancer. Not exactly who I had in mind for you, I must admit.”

“He’s a school teacher, with a postgraduate degree!” Arthur exclaims, flailing. He’s still having a hard time reconciling his discovery that Dragon X is his _Mer_ lin. Merlin is a bloody street performer, and brilliant at that. Arthur can’t believe how blind he was, failing to recognise his own boyfriend in the lanky, boisterous dancer, scarf or not.

Morgana smirks. “Like I said, imagine my surprise.”

Arthur taps his foot, thinking. “What I don’t understand,” he ponders, “is how is it that my ever-coffee-spilling, china-slaying, ungainly octopus of a boyfriend is actually so bloody brilliant and spot-on when he performs? How can it be the same person?”

“Do you remember what you told me about him when you first met him?” Morgana asks Arthur.

Arthur remembers and smiles. “Loves kids and music. Head always in a cloud, kind heart.”

“Who could probably use a stronger prescription for his glasses,” Morgana adds.

“Contacts,” Arthur corrects her.

She chuckles. “You know better.” And turns serious again. “He’s a daydreamer, Arthur. This is what attracted you to him in the first place. He didn’t change. Did anything change for you?”

Arthur thinks about commenting on Merlin’s propensity for losing his keys everywhere, his irritating habit of constant foot-tapping to some beat in his head, Merlin’s sharp mouth, his inability to drive without hitting every pothole. That’s Merlin as a whole package. And yet--

“Nope, nothing changed for me,” Arthur says. Merlin is still all he wants.

Morgana smiles. “Well, then.”

Arthur rubs his face, feeling wretched. “All this time, Morgana. _All this time,_ I thought of him as a hopeless klutz who was a danger to himself. I kept insulting him. I called him names… God, I’m an arsehole.” Merlin’s right. Arthur bangs his head on the back of the armchair a few times. “All I had to do was open my eyes. And to be a little kinder.”

He buries his face in his hands with groan, despairing all over again.

“Finally, little brother, you see the light,” Morgana mocks.

“Why did you never tell me about him?” Arthur accuses her.

“It wasn’t my business to interfere,” Morgana explains, and adds after a pause, “And I understood why Merlin wasn’t forthcoming.”

Arthur goes quiet. “Why?”

Morgana looks ahead, biting on her nail for a beat. “I think at first he was protective of his own space, trying to figure out where you fit. And later… I think he thought you’d leave, because street dancers aren't posh, and you are.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “So he left me instead.”

Morgana squeezes his shoulder. “It might not all be lost yet.”

“How would I know? He won’t talk to me.” Arthur looks at her. “What do I do, Morgana?”

“I’ve no answer, Arthur,” Morgana says. “You’ll have to figure it out. You know Merlin the best.”

That’s not very helpful, but a boost enough for Arthur to find hope again.

 

&&&&&

There’s an old saying that Arthur likes and uses with his employees often: “If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.”

Ready to follow his own advice, Arthur makes a decision and does the necessary research. He’ll go to see Merlin at the place where Merlin won’t be able to avoid him easily. Arthur understands well how it may be perceived, and the last thing he wants is to be considered a creep and a stalker, but what choice does he have? Merlin won’t even come to pick up clean clothes from the flat, all Arthur’s calls left unanswered.

Arthur changes his mind a million times. One minute he’s going, next he abandons the idea, then he goes again. It’s exhausting. He must at least try. He still hasn’t mustered the courage to confess to Merlin that he _knows,_ afraid that if he just tells Merlin he’s learned of his other identity, Merlin will run. Or will refuse to talk to him forever.

The truth is, Arthur feels they both deserve an honest talk face to face, rounded by total forgiveness by both parties and celebrated with vigorous shagging at the end, but Arthur’s getting ahead of himself. God, he misses Merlin. 

His heart is rapidly hammering in his chest, his knees knocking a bit, when he enters a small school in Harrow with a sign in the hallway that reads, “Street Dance Northwest London Meet”, making this all look very official and real. Arthur’s already learnt to understand that street dance isn’t just something bored kids do to show off to their friends and to kill time. It’s actually a serious thing that involves a lot of hard work and dedication, courage and creativity, and has a huge international following. For many, it’s not just a hobby. There are dancers who perform and compete professionally. And most importantly, what Arthur came to realise is that these people are there not just for themselves, but to spread the love -- of dance, of freedom of expression, of unique ways of thinking. There are some very talented street dancers out there.

And Merlin, _his_ Merlin, most certainly, is among those people.

Clutching an event flyer in his sweaty hand. Arthur cautiously looks around the large room he’s just walked into. It’s a typical school gym, and it smells like all typical school gyms do: of sweat, cleaning products, and too much testosterone. It’s dimly lit, except for the brightly illuminated spot shining on the large crowd of people in the middle. The music is playing and people are shuffling about, laughing, shaking hands, talking over each other. 

“Hey Em,” someone says behind Arthur and a familiar voice answers, “Hey there.”

Seized by panic, Arthur presses himself to the wall, and watches from the shadow of bleachers as Merlin touches shoulders with some bloke in greeting. Merlin, in dark jeans ripped at the knees and tucked into half-laced hightops, a black snug tee and a blue flannel shirt, is all broad-chested, tall, and comfortable in his skin, and sexy as hell. Arthur swallows. Merlin’s the exact image of himself from the videos Arthur watched countlessly. It’s also the Merlin who greeted him at home after work, or lay on the couch, blinking slowly while watching some show. And it’s an important reminder once more how bloody shortsighted Arthur’s been.

“You’ve been skipping a lot lately, mate. Haven’t seen you at all since the practice Saturday before last,” the bloke tells Merlin.

“Merlin shrugs. “Been busy.”

Arthur’s heart aches at the vacant notes in Merlin’s tone. _Saturday before last,_ he thinks, _this is where Merlin is on Saturdays_. And at events, like this one tonight.

There’s a lot Arthur doesn’t know about Merlin. A lot Merlin’s never shared. Arthur pushes down a familiar pang of resentment. He’s done being upset about it because it’s not all on Merlin. Arthur’s had a lot of time to think and resolve a few things for himself, and he’s arrived at this place for reasons. Being resentful isn’t one of them. But one question Arthur would like answered is -- if Merlin had’t caught him watching the videos, would he have ever come out with the truth to Arthur? Arthur likes to think it wasn’t a matter of “if”, but a matter of “when.” The alternative means absolutely no future for them, and it’s an alternative Arthur can’t bear to think about.

“Happens,” the bloke says. “Gonna battle tonight?”

Merlin clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Doubt it. I’m here for the workshop. My crew is here also, so we’ll practice.”

The bloke nods. “You have some pretty cool kids, mate. Good on you, teaching them the craft.”

Merlin smiles, his face transforming completely at the compliment. “Thanks, mate. I try. They’re worth it.”

They’re interrupted by a couple of boys, no older than fourteen or fifteen, walking up to them and greeting Merlin enthusiastically. Arthur doesn’t recognise them, and another pang, sharper, stabs his insides. There’s a huge side of Merlin -- a whole different _life --_ Arthur isn’t a part of. In his head, he’s already reconciled that this is something he’ll have to deal with if he and Merlin ever get back together, but seeing it now, watching Merlin walk away from him and talking warmly with people who are obviously more to him than just his pupils, it hurts. It hurts that in two years of being together, Arthur hasn’t made an effort to learn what Merlin was truly passionate about, hasn’t made an effort to be there when Merlin did try to share. It hurts that Merlin didn’t trust him, and Arthur stopped trusting Merlin. It hurts how completely out of place Arthur feels here, among these strangers, where Merlin is so at home.

It’s a lot harder than Arthur thought, and he wonders whether he should just go. Maybe Merlin has already made his choice where he’s the happiest and it's not with him, not with Arthur. It's just that Arthur would never make Merlin choose, if that was what Merlin was afraid of.

Nails pressed into the meat of his palms, Arthur rides out the anguish washing over him in a tide. He won’t leave.

“That’s Dragon, right?” Arthur hears a girl ask her friend as they walk by.

Her friend laughs. “Yeah, but chill. You’ve no chance with him. None of us girls do.”

The girl pouts but shrugs.

Arthur cautiously steps out of the shadows to follow behind the people who’ve just arrived, his eyes glued to Merlin’s back.

The crowd parts for Merlin as he approaches it.

“Hey, Em, gonna perform?” some bloke asks as Merlin connects with more shoulders in greetings and pats more backs, moving through.

Merlin shakes his head. “Just a workshop tonight.”

“Where’s your scarf, mate?” another guy asks while they shake hands.

“He can trust us!” someone declares. “We won’t talk.”

“But I can’t film him, then, can I?” the first guy argues. “You know the rule, mate. Gotta respect the rules.”

Not wanting to miss a single word of the conversation, Arthur pushes through an animatedly chatting crew in identical t-shirts, trying to keep a close distance to Merlin.

Merlin reaches the heart of the crowd where the main action is, a small crew of dancers has just finished up their routine.

“Truth,” Merlin says simply, fishing a piece of cloth out of his pocket. It looks like a brand-new bandana kerchief, red fabric with a white print, crisp on the edges, and even thinner than the one Arthur found in their closet. Merlin folds it into a triangle and slowly, deliberately ties it over his face, eyes crinkling in a smile.

“Let’s go,” he says, and claps. He steps into the open circle, which widens immediately to give him more space.

 

&&&&&

Someone cranks up the music, and Merlin jumps up and down a few times, pumping his arms.

“Come on,” he says, his voice slightly muffled through the kerchief, and points at several young boys in the front row watching him. “You, you, and you. Ready?”

The three selected boys step forward and one after another demonstrate several moves to the beat of the music, earning some cheers. Merlin watches them intently with a slight crinkle between his brows. Even with half of his face hidden, it’s expressive enough to see what he’s thinking. One of the boys keeps messing up, lip between his teeth, cheeks red with embarrassment, and Merlin squeezes his shoulder and stands next to him. He raises his arms and demonstrates the move in a slow motion.

A girl in the row before Arthur is trying to copy Merlin’s every move and persistently blocks Arthur’s view, which is annoying and a bit rude, in his opinion. He sidesteps around her at the first opportunity to squeeze past her and accidentally elbows some other girl as he goes, receiving an admonishing hiss. He apologises, turns quickly, and bumps into someone else. Hating the commotion, he ducks his head, mumbles another apology, and before he realises it, he finds himself in the very front row, the entire open space in full view.

“Pop and lock,” Merlin’s explaining to a sniffing boy. “Just arms, not shoulders. Pop, then lock. Like this...”

Merlin pulls his shirt down one shoulder, baring his arm, and pops his bicep a few times, earning several admiring whistles. Merlin laughs, flying two fingers. “Sod off, you wankers.”

He turns back to the boy. “Try again. No music this time.” He points at the boombox on the floor and is obeyed immediately. “Slow. On the beat. One-two-three-four. Again... Yessss,” he praises, pleased smile in his voice, when the boy finally gets it. They highfive.

It’s almost as if Merlin can’t help himself when he joins all three boys and they do the entire sequence together, nearly in unison, with a lot of encouragement from the audience.

Arthur’s breathless with awe. He already knew Merlin was great with his students, but this is yet another dimension to his boyfriend he hasn’t seen before. This is not just about patience or good dancing skills; Merlin doesn’t just share what he knows. He _gives_ himself _away._

It’s no surprise that when the sequence is done, the crowd bursts into applause, yelling praises, and people start demanding, “Do the whole routine, mate. Come on! Just one.”

“Do it, Dragon!” someone yells. “Show us some new moves!”

Merlin chuckles, wagging his finger ‘no’, but when he tries to step out of the circle, he’s met with the wall of the front row, blocking him in tight formation. The same bloke who Arthur saw first to greet Merlin earlier does an arm wave, crowding Merlin, and playfully bumps his chest into Merlin’s. Merlin stumbles back with dramatic flare, his hands up. The bloke raises an eyebrow and pops his chest again, in an obvious challenge. Merlin sighs loudly, shaking his head. With a shrug, he lowers himself to his knee and starts calmly tying his hightops, ignoring the bloke moonwalking in circles around him.

An intro to a new song comes on, beat unhurried, and Merlin starts rising to his feet but halts mid-motion, his knees and body half-bent. Then he drops his torso lower with a bounce like a wound-up toy, lifting himself again by small, incremental moves, his arms and his head tilting in a slow, robotic motion. You can practically hear a clockwork whirling inside of him, the moves are so realistic.

The crowd around him erupts, ecstatic. It’s no longer Merlin: Dragon X has returned.

Arthur can’t deny it -- he’s just as fascinated by Merlin’s transformation as everyone else in this place. It’s the best robot impression Arthur’s seen, and Arthur’s already seen a few. Merlin is so precise and natural, and so in character, he _is_ an airwalking wound-up toy until its imaginary battery dies and Merlin stutters to a stop in theatrical fashion, completing the routine. He finally blinks, breaking the character, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and despite the kerchief, Arthur can tell Merlin’s grinning ear to ear right now. He bows for his loudly cheering, whistling fans.

Arthur joins the crowd, clapping in genuine amazement. The song switches up its tempo, and the bloke who was challenging Merin earlier is back on the floor, in Merlin’s face again with moves so elaborate, the audience reacts with an excited, “Ohhhh!” and “Slaaay!”

Of course, such a goading has the expected effect, and Merlin breaks into a new fiery sequence, popping his shoulders and hips, sharp and quick one moment, fluid and loose the next. He waggles his brows with a smouldering gaze, his body a languid, seducative call so alluring, a few people groan in admiration, and the bloke slides up against Merlin and tries to put his hands on his hips. Merlin slaps them, playful but firm, with a muffled, “No.” The crowd jeers and laughs while the bloke pouts. Arthur doesn’t find it terribly funny. Who does this wanker think he is?

Somebody whistles behind Arthur and Merlin spins to the sound with a soft chuckle, when his gaze falls on Arthur. Merlin stops dead in his tracks. They stare at each other, Merlin so unnaturally still, it’s impossible not to notice the abrupt change in him. The laughter in the audience dies down, and aside from the beat of the song, there’s nothing but the shuffling of feet, hushed murmurs, and exchanges of puzzled looks. Arthur just now realises how hot it is in here; he should’ve taken off his coat a long time ago.

Merlin looks around and fixes his gaze on Arthur again, his eyes intense behind the fringe of his hair.

“Em?” the bloke behind Merlin asks.

Arthur gasps loudly, finally coming to himself, just one thought popping in his vacant mind: _Run_. _Run!_

He hasn’t prepared for this, he isn’t prepared for this one bit. This isn’t how he expected it to go, and no matter how much he thought about what he’d say to Merlin once he faced him, he isn’t ready for such a public showdown. Begging your boyfriend to come back is an experience humbling enough; doing so in front of a hundred people is, quite possibly, worse than death.

Arthur reels backwards, bumping into someone behind him, and receives a harsh shove in the back with an indignant, “Hey, watch it!”

Stumbling forward, he finds himself right in the open space opposite to Merlin, with all the attention zeroed in on them. His heart jumps frantically in his throat.

If Merlin appeared thrown off just a moment ago, there’s no sign of that anymore. Head high, deep line creasing his forehead, he studies Arthur from a few feet away. Arthur swallows hard and rubs his damp palms on his trousers, completely out of his depth. What is he supposed to do? What is Merlin thinking?

Merlin shifts into a wider stance and places his hands on the front pockets of his jeans, his fingers tapping to the song’s beat, defiance prickling in the air. As the song keeps playing, its tempo changing to a smoother melody, something changes in his expression as well, from bristly and guarded to softer, imploring. He leans his entire body forward, his feet staying firmly planted to the floor as if pulled by the strings towards Arthur. Their faces are so close, Arthur can see flecks of gold in the dark-blue of Merlin’s irises. Merlin's chest rises and falls rapidly and Arthur can hear him breathe, can feel the heat emanating from him, and something else so palpable, Arthur doesn’t need to see Merlin’s face to feel how miserable he is right now and how much he’s hurting. 

Arthur wants to touch him, offer comfort, but the moment he reaches out, Merlin pulls back, warning in his gaze. Only then Arthur remembers the audience around them, and Merlin’s purpose here. All eyes are on them; for the rest of the people here, it must be nothing but a show. With his palms up and shaking his head, Merlin reluctantly steps back in a smooth, gliding motion. Arthur's heart breaks at the emotion in Merlin's darkened eyes, when he drops his arms and folds his shoulders in. It’s a concession, it’s a goodbye. He rolls further away from Arthur and breaks into a slow dance.

Everything rebels in Arthur at the sight of Merlin letting go. A protest is ready to fly out of Arthur’s mouth when the music speeds up and Merlin’s mood changes yet again. His eyebrows flying up, his expressive hands begin a new dance of cutting and gathering motions, his body folding and unfolding. This is about still being broken but pulling yourself together again. And just when the music stops and Arthur thinks Merlin is done -- done with this performance and possibly with Arthur, if Arthur understood the narrative underneath it correctly, Merlin pulls the kerchief off and tosses it to the ground.  

 

&&&&&&

“Merlin, wait!” Arthur calls for Merlin, who’s slamming the entrance door open and walking away.

Arthur catches up with him quickly, grabbing his shoulder, stopping him.

Merlin’s shivering, sucking air through his clenched teeth, and although Arthur knows it’s not from the cold, he starts pulling his coat off. “God, Merlin, hold on.”

“Leave it, Arthur, I don’t need it,” Merlin protests, looking so wretched under the yellow light of the street lamp, Arthur wraps the coat around him anyway.

Merlin doesn’t fight him, his eyes downcast. Arthur buttons the coat up all the way, tugs on the collar, straightening it up, his hands smoothing the fabric over Merlin’s shoulders. The longer they stay silent, the harder it seems to start the conversation. Arthur clears his throat.  

“Where’s your jacket?” he asks, the first thing that comes to his mind. “You didn’t actually come here in a shirt, did you?”

“Jesus Christ,” Merlin swears, shrugging Arthur’s hands off. “Here we go again.”

“What did I say?” Arthur asks.

They stand on a nearly empty street, shoulder to shoulder, the tips of their feet over the edge of the kerb, a couple of random cars passing them by.

Merlin darts a look of exasperation at him. “Why did you come here, Arthur?” He tips forward, almost losing his balance, and Arthur pulls him back off the kerb by the sleeve, steadies him, like he always does. It’s their thing.

“Why do you think?” Arthur asks.

Merlin scowls. “To see if I’m cheating on you, probably. Did you see everything you needed?”

If Merlin thinks it’ll be this easy to rattle Arthur, he’s mistaken, especially after the kind of week Arthur’s had and after tonight.

“I never thought you were cheating on me,” he says calmly. “And yes, I saw what I came here for.”

“Then why are you still here?” Merlin presses.

Arthur remembers his conversation with Morgana and what he told her then. “Because seeing it changed very little for me.”

“It must have changed something,” Merlin insists.

“Well.” Arthur smiles softly. “Why don’t you tell me what that is.”

Merlin searches his eyes, miserable lines cutting deep on his drawn face. “Haven’t you ever thought how different we are, Arthur?” he asks quietly. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you, at least once since we’ve been together, that we’re not cut from the same cloth?”

Arthur raises his brows, genuinely perplexed. “No. Never. I never thought that. I actually always thought we’re kind of meant to be.” He finds Merlin’s hand and takes it in his with care, presses his to Merlin’s, palm to palm. Merlin’s fingers are a bit longer and very cold. Arthur can’t imagine anyone else’s hand fitting as well as Merlin’s against his. “I didn’t care if anyone else thought otherwise,” he says solemnly.

Merlin exhales loudly, looking up at the moon, low and opalescent over a London skyline. “I agonised over this so much. It was almost a relief when I thought you finally realised I wasn’t good enough for you.”

Arthur stares at him. “That’s total nonsense, Merlin.”

“I know,” Merlin says, a grimace of pain on his face. “I didn’t want to move in with you, remember?”

Arthur huffs dryly. “Yeah.”

“Not because I was afraid that you’ll find out I’m into something shameful, because I’m not ashamed of things I love and who I am. I was afraid that _you_ would be. It always felt like what you did was a lot more important, more financially sound, more… I don’t know.” Merlin shrugs. “It just didn’t seem fair that I was expected to sacrifice what I cared about while you kept on the way you always did. Do you see?”

He glances at Arthur.

Arthur nods, rubbing his forehead. “Yeah, and I’m sorry about that. I want to do better.”

A small, sad smile stretches across Merlin’s lips. “You can’t change the demands of your position, Arthur.”

Arthur’s already considered this heavily. “No, but I’ll learn to delegate.”

Merlin stares ahead, in thought. “You know, when you and I had just started dating,” he shares in a low, subdued voice, “Lance warned me to think twice about getting in too deep with you. It wouldn’t be right to spoil your career and reputation, what with my underwhelming… credentials.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Arthur promises darkly. Lance is a noble, and probably well-meaning bloke, but he had no right…

“I think he just wanted to protect me,” Merlin defends his friend.

“That was a piss-poor job, if you ask me,” Arthur responds with conviction. 

Merlin hunches his shoulders. “I stayed on the downlow for as long as I could. I--” He turns to Arthur, his eyes wide, wet. “I kind of thought we were meant to be, too," he whispers. "I stayed with you as long as I could.”

With a groan, Arthur pulls Merlin into a fierce hug, and Merlin clutches him with a desperation of a drowning man.

"I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry," Arthur murmurs, pressing his lips to Merlin's damp hair. They need to get out of the cold soon. 

“I wanted to tell you so many times,” Merlin confesses into Arthur’s neck. “It ate me alive. Even after I left, I wanted to tell you. _God_ , it was killing me. ”

“It took you a while,” Arthur observes, rubbing Merlin’s back soothingly.

Merlin huffs against his skin, his breath warm. “I was building up courage.”

Arthur sighs. He knows a thing or two about how daunting that task can be.

He pulls back to see Merlin’s expression when he offers, “Let’s go home, Merlin.”

Merlin frowns, but there’s something else in his expression, like wariness and hope. “You still want me there?”

Arthur squeezes his shoulders, smiling. “Did you really think that after spending almost a year convincing you to move in with me, I’d kick you out only a few months later over you having a stage name?”

“I shouldn’t have said yes, then,” Merlin says morosely.

“Yes, you should’ve,” Arthur insists. “And I’m glad you did.”

“Why?” Merlin asks miserably. “I lied to you all this time.”

“You didn’t lie,” Arthur argues, and he believes it. “I didn’t listen. I didn’t pay attention. The signs were there, but I neglected to see them.”

Merlin gives him an indignant look.

“Okay, there was some… withholding of relevant information,” Arthur concedes, “but I think I understand now why. Not that I excuse it, mind you,” he adds quickly. “But I do think we both could’ve done a better job at… I don’t know…  being more patient with each other?”

“And you’re willing to just…” Merlin waves his hand. “Go back to living together like nothing happened?”

“Oh no,” Arthur says, pulling Merlin back into an embrace. “Not at all. There are things we’ll have to work on together.”

“Things.” Merlin gasps at Arthur’s mouth brushing against his Adam’s apple. “What kind of things?”

“Things.” Arthur keeps trailing his lips up to Merlin’s jaw. “Like getting a new prescription for your contacts, so you stumble around less.”

“For the umpteenth time, Arthur, I’m not clumsy!” Merlin exclaims, arching in Arthur’s arms, but Arthur’s holding him fast. “Did I look clumsy to you tonight?”

“In places,” Arthur teases.

“You see what you choose to see, not what’s actually there," Merlin grumbles. "Do you know that?”

“I do now," Arthur admits, more subdued. "If ever I made you self-conscious, that's my fault." When Merlin shrugs, not denying it, Arthur brushes his thumb across his cheekbone. "Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t worry about my boyfriend’s poor vision. How else can I be sure he ogles my glorious arse when opportunity presents itself?” he asks, mirth in his soft smile.

Merlin catches Arthur's hand, rubbing his knuckles. “You _are_ an arse.”

“I’m glad we see things _eye to eye_ ,” Arthur declares, and they both snort with laughter that stops as soon as Arthur starts kissing Merlin.

“Merlin, wait,” Arthur groans, when their kisses escalate into desperate groping right in the middle of the street, even if it’s not terribly crowded. He doesn’t remember when he unbuttoned the coat on Merlin again, needing his hands all over him. “Wait.” With shaky hands he pulls his mobile to call a cab, and would’ve done it faster if it weren’t for Merlin’s distracting knee sliding between his thighs.

“Tell me more about things,” Merlin whispers.

“Hmm?” Arthur asks, chasing after Merlin’s mouth.

“Things we have to work on,” Merlin says and sucks a kiss on Arthur’s collarbone.

Arthur throws his head back, shivering, and feverish all over from how hot Merlin’s tongue is against his skin, scrape of Merlin’s teeth ripping a loud moan out of his throat.

“Tell me,” Merlin demands. He brings his hand to Arthur’s crotch and rubs there slowly. Arthur’s sure he sees stars, there’s so much brightness behind his eyelids from pleasure.

“Like vacations?” Arthur doesn’t really mean it to be a question, blaming his voice for going high-pitched when Merlin’s sure hand slides into Arthur’s trousers and squeezes him. Arthur moans, rocking into Merlin's hand. He takes a shuddering breath. “I want to go on vacations with you. Around the world. Everywhere. I want my every free moment spent with you.”

“Yeah?” Merlin murmurs, pressing kisses, messy and wet, against his jawline. “What else?”

Arthur can’t concentrate with Merlin’s touches driving him mad, but he tries. He shifts, placing a hand on Merlin’s cheek, willing him to look at him, then kisses him on the lips, softer, with more meaning. “IDO championship, Merlin, next June. It’s one of the biggest dance competitions in the world, and I think you and your crew should go.”

Merlin sucks in breath, his eyes finding focus. He bites his lip. “It’s not that simple, Arthur.” He glances away. “It’s a huge investment. We don’t have that kind of money, or time.”

Arthur grins. “And what are anonymous donors and supportive boyfriends here for?”

It takes a moment for a confusion on Merlin’s face to transform into a bright grin. “Arthur! You--”

Merlin pulls Arthur into another kiss, fervent, but unhurried, sweet.

“Arthur,” he says, pressing their foreheads together. “If we go. _God._ If we ever go. I want you to go with us. I want you to be there. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Arthur swears. “I don’t want you to think you’re alone in anything ever again in your life.”

Merlin’s dopey, bright smile is the way Arthur always wants to end their conversations going forward. Is that too much to ask?

“Merlin?” Arthur wonders much later in the car, admiring Merlin’s fingers twined with his.

“Hmm?” Merlin asks sleepily.

“Do you think you’ll let me do your laundry from now on?” What? This is a serious matter Arthur needs to resolve, since this is the evening of resolutions and all.

Merlin snorts loudly, opens one eye to peek at Arthur, and shakes his head. “You are so strange, Arthur Pendragon. Very, very strange.”

“So?” Arthur shrugs. “You still love me.”

Merlin sighs dramatically. “God, I do. I really, really do.” And burrows into Arthur’s side.

 

  **The End**

 


End file.
